


Glassy Eyes

by tepidblood



Category: Bleach
Genre: Body Horror, Consensual Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Dubious Consent, Eye Horror, Implied Past Abuse, M/M, Necrophilia Kink, This is a gd mess. please stop them. they are withering my crops. my will to write fluff., death mentions, necrophilia mention, no actual necrophilia but here we are anyway thanks Shuu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidblood/pseuds/tepidblood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izuru had always had glassy blue eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glassy Eyes

" **You shouldn't smoke in your condition.** " The words are automatic, a verbal tick that flings itself past his lips before his brain can catch it, and tumbling in front of him like a poorly spit admission. He's not looking up from the paperwork in his lap, but he can feel the look he's receiving. He can smell the sharpness of freshly burned oil, flaring to life under mechanical fingers so that a smoldering joint could be crammed between thin lips. He doesn't need to see how graceful the arch of a golden brow is over a pale, nearly blue tinged face. The look was sometimes hard enough to face back when the face that carried it has color in its cheeks, gaunt with a lack of sleep or not. Now it's impossible to face in the features of a corpse.

" **Why not? It can't do me any more damaged.** " He's right, but that's not the point. Being right here isn't the point at all, when he did the 'right thing' and died for it. He's careful, twirling the pen in his hand, and not giving in the urge to snap it. He doesn't want to have to clean ink out of his sheets. He can look over and see there's an old, _years old_ , cum stain in his sheets still. Their sheets. He thinks about snapping the pen again.

" **That's not the point--** "  
" **I don't care.** "

Izuru moves with all the grace of blades flung from rooftops now. His feet hit heavy on hardwood floors, carrying him away from their his bed and towards the window. He's not wearing a top, wheezing as he eases the window open, and half leans out of it. Anyone could see him now, if they looked. Anyone could see that Kira Izuru, the _dead_ Lieutenant, was in his quarters. Topless. **Smoking.**

He snaps the pen in half and curses; Izuru creeks a laugh at him.

* * *

 

" **You look worried.** " Says the man who looks like nothing; like every emotion has fled from his body, chasing after his life. He breathes, moves, and talks, but he's not sure if that's 'alive' anymore. He's seen what zombies could do, fast and powerful, and very much not alive. Skin ruddy with foreign blood, eyes glassy and unfocused-- fuck. Izuru's eyes have always been glassy.

" **It's nothing.** " He lies, he recoils, and he draws back. Izuru's skin is warm from where his body has been against it, lying open and pliant, even as Izuru had simply looked at him. ( _'Can I?' " **Sure.** "_) The hand that had idly tangled into his hair falls away as he sits up, a chill catching him as lube moist skin meets the late evening air. Normally he'd just slot back against Izuru, frot it out, or just lay and mingle in disgusting sweat. Izuru would whine a little under him, his asthma kicking up from all the panting and muffled shouts and pleas. There's a ball gag with teeth marks in the drawer across the room, but they didn't need it. Izuru had never been this quiet during sex before.

" **You're a shitty liar.** " He's propped up on pillows, wearing a shirt that came from the World of the Living; a gift from his new Captain. It's a t-shirt, with a band name scrawled across it, but he still hasn't read it. If he stares at his shirt he remembers what he's hiding under it while they fuck. " **I should know; I slept with a good liar before.** " It's a slap in the face, a reason to make him look away from the angle of Izuru's bent legs and up at his face. Into his glassy blue eyes. He's got an expression on his face, but for the life of him he can't figure out if it's a frown or a smirk. Or both.

" **Sorry; my first time fucking a corpse.** " The remark is out before he can stop it; _again_. Eyebrows are hefting again, up high on a face that has slowly been losing _some_ of its blue tinge. The expression that twists lips thin ( _and dry; Izuru's lips have never been so dry_ ) as Division pamphlets is something that could pass as amusement; finally. Amusement wasn't always a good thing though. His Captain-- _Captains_ took amusement out of other people's suffering. It was disgusting. ~~He wasn't any different.~~

" **Don't lie to me.** " The hand that had fallen away is back in his hair, running through it and pulling out knots with a lack of kindness; it was cold. The mechanical hand is no warmer, reaching up to trail black fingertips over his face, with the weird, overly smooth synthetic skin gliding effortlessly over the arch of his cheek. " **You've been fucking me for years.** " There's teeth now, venomous hints glinting through pale, _thin_ lips. The black fingertips run the tracks of his scars, digging against old hurts, and bringing fresh pain. It was hot; it was real. It was familiar, the clinical way that Izuru's glassy eyes looked at him, as if he was just a patient on the table. He taps a finger against his glass eye, making him grunt from the shock, and attempt to blink. The fingers in his hair seize, hold him tight, as cold skin slips under ruined eyelids. " **You've been sleeping with a dead man for years now.** "

His eyeball makes a sickening _clink_ as it pulls free from the socket, into the metal hand awaiting it, and he cums between Izuru's legs.

* * *

 

He's not afraid, but apprehensive. Kazeshini shouts and screams in his mind, a storm that never stops, and he has no refuge from. Work is blustery, preparing for another invasion was full of violent gusts, and every window and door in his house had drafts leaking through them. The drafts brought in familiar scents: freshly turned earth, formaldehyde, flowers, and sharply pressed cotton. A yukata shows off Izuru's legs, almost back to the shade they should be, as he smokes at the open bedroom window again. He looks past it, frowns at him for smoking, and moves into the bathroom; Izuru doesn't even acknowledge he's there.

The shower is cold, doing nothing to fight off the day's chill, or invigorate him. It bogs him down, saps him of what little strength remained, and he wraps up in all the towels he can manage. Except the green towels, with delicately embroidered _K's_ on them. He leaves them be; even the one he knocked carelessly to the floor.

" **Did you use all the hot water?** " His tone is more accusing than he meant, but it had been a long day, and lack of sleep was catching up on him. Izuru shrugs a little, the only indicator that he heard him at all, and doesn't respond. It pisses him off. He grabs at a shoulder barely hidden under a slipping, loosely tied yukata, and pulls him around. The yukata slides further-- completely off one shoulder under his hand. The obi drops, right in front of the open window, and loose cotton flutters open in a breeze.

He's wet still, in only a few dark grey towels that match the color of the sky, and now Izuru is, essentially, naked. He snuffs his cigarette against the wood of the windowsill, flicking the bud into the alley outside, and leans close. He's _warm_ , his skin flushed from what **had** to be scalding water, and his breath cozy with tar thick smoke that he blows into his face. " **I see that cold shower didn't do you any good.** " He can't feel the chill of a mechanical hand, not with it pressing against him through a damp towel; he can just feel pressure. He can feel warmth, pressure, and breath. This was what he remembered of Izuru.

He can see into Izuru's chest cavity, through the ebony spires that support some of the remaining and reconstructed ribs of Izuru's right side, and he throbs.

* * *

 

This time is better, though Izuru is still quiet. He doesn't pull out until he's done, unfolding Izuru's legs from above his head gingerly, as if he might break them. There's bruises on Izuru, he realizes, belatedly. They're all in the shapes of his fingers, mouth, and hands. He had gripped at pale hips a little too hard today evidently. He had bit too roughly at the nook of where Izuru's calf meets his thigh. He had woven his fingers a bit too tightly around his thin neck, mottling the skin there, to no effect at all; Izuru hadn't shed a single tear. He wasn't smiling either, wrecked and messy, and gasping.

He just wheezes subtly, lays mostly still, and looks at him with those glassy blue eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as vent for a shitty brain day a while back and it has connections to [a drabble](http://tepidblood.tumblr.com/post/134502462158) I did for when Izuru first 'came back' in the magna. What is even going on in Bleach.  
> Why did we let Kubo get killed and let Konami write Bleach?


End file.
